


Born from Storm

by dandelionpower



Category: Poldark (TV 2015), Return to Treasure Island (TV 1996)
Genre: First Meeting, M/M, Physical hurt/comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-19
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-06-09 08:13:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6898000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dandelionpower/pseuds/dandelionpower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ross rescues the young captain Hawkins from a shipwreck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mosslover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mosslover/gifts).



> Thanks a lot to Mosslover for the help and advice.

Some love stories are meant to begin on bright, sunny days, others are born from storm, wind and rain.

It was the middle of the night when Ross Poldark woke up with a start to the sound of someone banging on his front door. He sat up in his bed, his shirt rumpled and his curls in a mess. Heavy raindrops were hitting the window and he could hear the autumn wind blow outside, discharging all its fury on the Cornish coast. Ross had been sound asleep all night, not even noticing the tempest raging.

“Prudie !” he called out.

The banging continued, without a sign of the servant going to answer the door.

“Prudie! The door!!” he shouted, his voice still gravelly from sleep, but he wouldn’t be surprised if she was snoring despite the racket going on downstairs. Jud and she had probably raided his pantry again and were too drunk to even hear it.  

He got out of bed with a groan, wondering why he even had servants if they never did anything useful. In a haste, he put on the pair of breeches he had worn the day before and tucked his shirt inside. As he lit a candle and carried it downstairs, an anxious feeling started to creep into his speeding heart. Someone coming at his door at such an ungodly hour never meant anything good. Usually, it was a relative coming to announce a death. There were few other reasons why someone would come to his door at night. It couldn’t be a problem with the mine, since it was closed at this hour and all his workers were home. Someone he knew might have died, or was close enough to the grave they would have sent someone to fetch him. Maybe it was Dwight, needing urgent assistance with a patient. Or maybe it was only a traveler who had lost his horse in the storm.

The first thing that came in when Ross opened the door was the chilly wind. To his surprise, it was Zacky Martin that Ross found on his doorstep. The man’s clothes were drenched from the pouring rain.

“I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour of the night, Ross,” the miner apologized, “but there is a ship that just wrecked on the cliffs. I’m pretty sure she’s one of the Warleggan’s.”

“And that shipwreck is on my land?” Ross asked with obvious interest. By law, anything that beached on his property was his, and it was a great opportunity to get some payback after everything George and his cousin Matthew had stolen from him and put an end to his smelting company.

“Yes,” Zacky confirmed. “That’s why I thought I would notify you at once.”

“Thank you,” Ross told the older man, clapping his shoulder with a firm hand. “Go wake the others and join me at the beach.”

The miner nodded and took his leave right away.

Ross closed the door and ran upstairs to grab his coat and hat. He went to the stables and saddled Darkie. There was no need to wake Jud from his drunken stupor. It would take half the time if Ross did it himself.

By the time Ross got to the beach, the rain had stopped but the wind was still high and he had to put a hand on top of his tricorn hat to prevent it from being blown away as he jumped down his horse.

He found the survivors of the wreck on the beach, busy dragging two bodies out of the water.

In the first light of dawn, Ross could see that the ship had not sunk. The wind and waves had pushed her onto the cliffs. She was still clinging to the sharp rocks that had torn her hull open.

“Are you the only survivors?” Ross asked the men gathered there.

“Jack and Roger are dead,” one of the sailors told him. “There’s also Captain Hawkins. I don’t know if he’s still alive. I think he’s still onboard the ship. We couldn’t find him, so we took the rowing boat and came here.”

“You didn’t make much effort to save your captain, did you?” Ross remarked.  

The man gave him a mean glare, but he opted for a cautious silence as the only reply.

A part of the Warleggan’s precious cargo had already washed on the sand and when Zacky and the other villagers arrived, Ross ordered them to carry the goods away from the water. The mineworkers were starving and if they could plunder what they would need to survive through winter, Ross had no problem being their accomplice.

“What are you doing?” Zacky asked him when he saw Ross pushing the rowing boat back into the water.

“I’m going to check if the captain of the ship is still alive,” he replied. Captain Hawkins was working for the Warleggans, and frankly, Ross had considered for a minute just pretending he did not know he might still be alive in that wrecked ship. But his conscience reminded him that Hawkins might as well be only an innocent men who did not know how devious and corrupted his employers were.

“I don’t know if it’s wise, sir,” the miner pointed out. “The tide is rising.”

“That’s why I have to do it now before it rises even more,” Ross insisted, obstinate.

“Let me come with you then,” Zacky offered.

Ross accepted with a quick nod and the two of them managed to push the boat past the breaking waves without capsizing and to row to the shipwreck.

They stepped on what remained of the deck and started searching for any soul still alive on the ghost ship. The grey clouds obscured the rising sun and there was not much light yet. It was difficult to find any trace of survivors. Ross had practically given up when, as he moved some wooden planks, he caught a glimpse of a man’s hand: fingers twitching to grab an invisible lifeline. Ross hailed the miner. “He’s here! He’s alive! Help me move that large beam here: he’s caught underneath.”

With their joined strengths, they moved the beam and some more pieces of wood and a fair-haired head appeared.  When Ross grabbed the man under the armpits and pulled him out from the wreckage, he realized he was barely conscious. He was trembling and his muscles were rigid in a desperate attempt at warming himself up. Half of his body, from the waist down, had been stuck underwater for hours. No wonder the man was suffering from the cold.

“I have to bring him home, or else he’s going to die,” Ross told Zacky, lifting captain Hawkins in his arms. He was very light, almost like a child, and Ross had no trouble carrying him to the boat. “We must hurry,” the dark-haired man pressed Zacky. Ross laid the blond man down at the bottom of the boat. He took his coat off and covered the shaking form with it.

Ross grabbed one of the rows and help Zacky drive the boat back to the beach.

“D-don’t-t le-et me die h-here,” Hawkins stuttered in a weak voice as Ross took him out of the boat and carried him to his horse.

“I won’t,” Ross assured him. “You won’t die.” He realized now that Hawkins was pretty young: eighteen, nineteen maybe, not more than twenty two for sure: quite young for being the captain of a ship like this one. He might have remarkable sailing skills to hold such a position.

Mark Daniels and Zacky helped Ross pulling the young captain up on Darkie’s back and wrap him in Ross’ coat.

Ross set Hawkins on the saddle in front of him and draped an arm around his shoulders to prevent him from falling off, as if he was a rescued damsel. He hoped the blond man would pardon him that slight infringement to the codes of manliness, but Hawkins’ limp neck had his head resting on Ross’ shoulder anyway.  It was already too late for trying to save appearances.

 

***

To Ross’ utter surprise, Prudie was up when he got back to the house and she opened the door to let her master in.

“I’m going to light a fire in the parlor. Go and get me all the warm blankets you can find,” he ordered in a cold voice as he brought Hawkins inside. Prudie didn’t ask any question and obeyed right away, too happy to make herself scarce. She was well aware her master was angry with her and she wished not to make it worse.

Ross carried the younger man to the parlor and gently put him down on the thick carpet next to the fireplace.

Ross crouched down by the hearth and stirred the remaining embers. Fortunately, they were still hot enough; he only had to add a log and the fire came back to life. Prudie arrived not long after with a pile of woolen blankets. Ross dismissed her and told her to go back to bed before he locked the parlor’s door with the old, iron key.

Ross knelt down next to the stranger.

The log burning in the fireplace shed a soft light on Hawkins’ face. He had truly enticing features: from the symmetrical and delicate lines of his face to the plump and perfectly shaped mouth. His shoulder-length, blond curls were gathered by a black, velvet ribbon at the nape of his neck. He reminded Ross of a print from the catechism book his preceptor had made him read as a child. The print represented the Annunciation and the man lying on his carpet right now was identical to the image of the angel Gabriel. He looked like purity incarnated: an angel fallen from the sky and into the sea.

Without thinking, Ross reached out with a hand and, with his forefinger, grazed the little crease in the middle of the clean-shaven chin.

Jim opened his eyes for the span of a few seconds and Ross withdrew his hand promptly. The sailor’s glazed eyes were of a greenish blue, just like the ocean where he came from. He did not seem truly conscious of what was going on around him. His teeth were still clattering and keeping his eyes open was asking too much strength for what he could give. He closed them right away.

Ross took the stranger’s hand in his. It was moist and cold to the touch. If Ross did not do something to warm him up quickly, he might still die.

It would take too long before the fire would warm the room sufficiently. Ross had little choice but to use his own warmth to save the other man. He did not hesitate and proceeded in pulling Hawkin’s shirt, boots and wet breeches off. Soon, he had the blond man fully naked on his parlor’s carpet.

Ross took a closer look at a few good bruises on the blond man’s right leg that worried him a little. His ankle was swollen, but hopefully it was only a bad sprain and not a fracture. The young captain could thank God for not being more injured than he was.

Hawkin’s body was slim, but well-built, Ross noticed. He was practically hairless, except for small patches of blond hairs around his nipples and a puff of slightly darker ones between his lean legs. His smooth chest and stomach were pale from the cold the poor young man had been submitted to, but it couldn’t completely supress the golden glow of his tanned skin. He had obviously spent a long time in some country where the sun was more generous than the Cornish one.

Hawkins was sure a feast for the eyes, but Ross could not lose any more time in contemplation. He took his own shirt off and tossed it away on a nearby armchair.

This was a matter of life and death, but decency still enjoined Ross to keep his own breeches on. He was positive that the warmth of his chest would be enough. He lied by Hawkin’s side and tucked them both under three thick blankets. Then, Ross took the smaller man in his arms to share his body heat. Ross shivered, part from the coolness of the younger man’s skin, part because it has been a while since the last time he had held someone like that. It has been a long time since the last opportunity he had had to feel someone’s heartbeat on his chest and a breath on his neck.

Little by little, the pliant body in Ross’ arms started warming up and relaxing. The convulsive shivers stopped, and soon, Hawkins had the peaceful breathing of someone in a deep sleep. He was not in danger anymore, but Ross decided to stay by his side a little more. He had to admit that the close proximity was agreeable and he was in no hurry to let go. Before he even knew it, he was asleep as well.

When Ross woke up, the light coming through the window was the one of the mid-day sun, albeit veiled by clouds. If the dark-haired man had noted this, he would have probably cursed himself for having slept for so long, but he had another, more urgent preoccupation. There were sea-like eyes darting across his face in a curious and coy expression.

Ross should have taken his arms from around the sailor’s smaller frame by now, but surprise and embarassment just got him paralyzed.

“Captain James Hawkins.”

“Sorry?” Ross mumbled in confusion, even if he had heard the three words perfectly well.  

“James Hawkins,” the blond man repeated. “That’s my name. But you can call me ‘Jim’.”

“Captain Ross Poldark, but ‘Ross’ will do.”

“Can I ask you a question, Ross?”

“Of course.”

“By no means do I wish to complain about my current situation, but maybe you can enlighten me. What exactly am I doing naked in your arms?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to katyushha for the betaing. :)

 

“No need to apologize,” Jim repeated for the third time. “ It would be very ungrateful of me to hold it against you,” he pointed out to reassure Ross.  

Ross’s face could not get rid yet of that rather interesting shade of red it sported since the moment Jim had woken up and he had freed him from his arms.  And now, Ross averted his eyes the best he could, because there was still a very naked man standing in his parlor.

“Besides, I’ve lived months on a ship with an all-men crew. If you think this situation is unknown to me, then you are mistaken,” Jim added, with a half-smile that indicated his lack of shame and his secret rejoicing to see Ross getting even redder.   

Jim’s trousers were still wet and his frilled shirt torn up at the back. Prudie had brought some clothes along with the blanket the night before and Ross gave Jim a white shirt that belonged to him as he blocked his eyes with his other hand. But truth to be told, he had already seen everything that had to be seen when he had stripped Jim from his wet clothes. Jim let out a soft chuckle when he saw all the efforts Ross was pulling to show some decency and to avoid looking in his direction.

Still smiling, Jim took the offered shirt and put it on. “I should inquire after what is left of my crew,” he mused out loud.

“You must be ravenous,” Ross declared and headed to the parlor’s door. “I’m going to ask Prudie to bring us food.” He was trying to be a polite host, but if he had been honest to himself, he would admit he was in no hurry to see Jim leave.

Before Jim could protest or say anything, Ross had already left the parlor and closed the door behind him to give the other man some privacy to put on trousers.

Instead of going in search of Prudie immediately, he took the stairs to his bedroom.

Ross only owned three shirts. One of them was still on one of the parlor’s chair, after he had tossed it there in his hurry to save the blond man. The second one was now on Jim’s back. There was only one left in his cabinet. Fortunately, it was his best one -- the shirt he usually kept for the rare times he dragged his feet to church to hear reverend Odgers talk about sin and redemption. He wondered what the clergyman would think if he ever learnt how Ross had spent his night. Life was sacred in the eyes of God: Ross had done a Christian thing by saving a fellow man’s life. What was less biblical about it were the thoughts that had crossed his mind as he was holding the young captain Hawkins in his arms: how much he had enjoyed the sailor’s delicate skin brushing against his; how he had watched Jim breathe softly between lips that had nothing to envy the finest maidens’. He grabbed his best coat, dusted the shoulders and put his arms through the sleeves. He paused in front of the mirror to tame his hair and tied a neckerchief around his collar. His rough chin was in need of a shave but he chose not to dwell longer on the matter of his appearance. It was already twice the time he usually allowed himself to make sure he was presentable. A quick look through his bedroom window told him that the storm had somehow quietened, but the wind kept on making soot-colored clouds roll in from the sea.

The sound of the kettle whistling on the stove or the scent of freshly baked bread: those were the things that should welcome a gentleman in his house’s kitchen, but not at Nampara, because, out of fond memory for his father, Ross had kept his idle servants. Instead, it’s the sound of Prudie’s snores that greeted Ross in the room. The burly woman was asleep in a chair, feet propped up on a stool.  He kicked the stool from under her boots and she woke in a start.

“Capt’in Ross, sir!” she exclaimed, getting up and smoothing her white apron that didn’t get many opportunity to get dirty. “Where ee be going? I should get Jud and make him get the horse ready for thee.”

Ross snorted to show his impatience. She would not offer to help so keenly if she was not at least a little afraid of his anger. “What makes you think I’m going anywhere?”

She eyed his outfit without a word. She must have made this assumption based on the way he was dressed.

“In any case, my whereabouts are none of your concern,” he groaned, glaring down at her. “However, what should be of your concern, is that it’s nearly noon and there is still nothing ready to eat. It’s already enough I’m tolerating being ill-served, but we have a guest and for once, I want someone to keep the illusion that I have useful and loyal employees.” He grabbed the nearest cooking pot and shoved it in her hands . “I want a meal on the table in half an hour, or else, I’ll make sure you and Jud sleep in the company of the chickens for a few weeks.”

She nodded and gulped.

Ross went back to the parlor, hoping the threat of having them sleep in the hen house would be enough to coerce Prudie into serving some kind of breakfast in a reasonable amount of time.

In the parlor, Jim had taken things in hand and rekindled the fire in the hearth. He was crouching in front of it and when Ross walked in, he rose. “I wouldn’t want to give any trouble to you or your household,” he said. The clothes Ross had lent him were too big for his frame. He had had to roll up the sleeves and the bottom of the trousers.  

“Nonsense,” Ross objected. “It would be very unmannerly of me to deny you a meal to rebuild your strength.”

“And you are a true gentleman,” Jim supplied. There was nothing mocking in his tone. It had been said out of respect and unhidden admiration. Jim had not been in the county long enough to hear of the Nampara Poldarks and their reputation of recklessness and loose morals. He was there, free of any judgement besides the evidence of his own eyes. Somehow, this pleased Ross and he did not try to correct his guest.

Ross took a bottle of his best brandy from the cupboard and invited Jim to join him at the table. He noticed the way Jim winced and limped when he walked. He put the bottle and two glasses on the middle of the table and gave the blond man’s leg a concerned glimpse. “It seems to hurt,” he remarked.

“I’ve endured worse.”

“There is doctor Enys who lives on my lands, but I’m unsure if he’s thereabouts these days.  There is also doctor Choake, on the road to Sawle,” Ross informed him. “But I’m afraid he would try to bleed you and purge you, even to treat a twisted ankle.”

Jim winced again and he sat down on one of the benches. “I think I prefer keeping my blood in my limbs.”

Ross hesitated. “I’m no surgeon, but I have some experience in tending injuries. Would you mind letting me take a look at it?” he offered, hoping it would not appear too forward. Jim did not seem to think so, because he whispered “please” and adjusted his position on the bench so Ross could squat in front of him and inspect his ankle.

The arch of Jim’s foot was both delicate and solid as he held it in his hand. Ross felt the sinews, muscles and bones of the swollen ankle with his fingers, as gently as he could. Jim flinched but did not utter a single sound. “As far as I can judge, the bones are unscathed, but I would spare your leg for a week or two if I were you,” he advised. The skin of the foot was cool and it suddenly seemed a natural thing for Ross to envelop it in his hands to warm it.

The door creaked open and Prudie walked in with a loaf of bread on a plate and some butter.

Ross stood up quickly and cleared his throat.

With eyebrows raised, her gawky glance traveled between the two men. To put an end to Prudie’s train of thought, wherever it was leading, Ross gave her Jim’s torn up shirt and asked her to mend it. He dismissed her before she could form a protest.

The two men sat at the table, facing each other. The rye bread had been baked a few days ago and it was on the verge of staleness. Jim did not mind and he made honor to it with appetite.

They began to converse amicably and Ross, who was usually not a curious man, was still intrigued by that singular creature he had drawn out of the sea and he asked Jim where he came from.

”I was born in a village near Bristol where my parents owned an inn, but I was in North Carolina for the last fourteen years. I made a living there as a merchant. I owned a small fleet of my own but lost most of it when the war began.”

Ross was observing rather than listening as Jim narrated the debacle of his commercial venture in America. He was animated: blond curls flying about his forehead. Beside the limp and a slight shadow under his eyes, there was nothing left of the freezing wreck survivor he had brought home in the wee hours. It was a bold, impetuous young man he had in front of him. Ross wondered how different it would feel to have him in his arms again.

“I still had my two jewels left: The Hawk and The Eagle,” Jim explained, “But then, on Christmas Eve, the Hawk was requisitioned for his Majesty’s service, even though I was loyal to the crown.”

“What happened to The Eagle?”

“I lost her as well. That’s a long story…” Jim trailed off. He reached for the loaf of bread again and torn a piece from it. He took his time to chew it before he spoke again.  “You introduced yourself as Captain Poldark, but you don’t strike me as a sea captain. Have you ever been at sea, Ross?”

“Yes, but I’m more of a miner than a sailor,” Ross confessed. “I feel better at ease below grass than on a ship deck.  I fought in the American war so I’ve crossed the Atlantic and saw the new world as well. I liked it there. The American have that thing called freedom.”

Jim shrugged. “Go tell that to the slaves on the plantations.”

“Hm. True,” Ross conceded. He looked at him now with a growing interest. Jim was the first man he had ever met who considered black slaves as humans. The upper class in Cornwall had already a hard time seeing the miners as such.

“If you liked America, what made you come back to Cornwall, if it is not too indiscreet?” Jim wondered.

Ross sighed and looked down into his cup of brandy, pondering the appropriate answer to give. He opted for the truth. “A woman,” he replied, and took a sip.   

”I left the colonies for the same reason.”

The question escaped Ross before he could hold it back: “Who was she?”

”Her name was…” Jim paused. “Her name _is_ Coral,” he corrected himself.  “She’s the daughter of my oldest enemy.”

Ross could not hide his surprise.

“I know, it was doomed from the start,” Jim agreed with the unspoken remark. “When her father was killed, I took her with me to Charleston. She loved me. At least, she led me to believe it, until the day she eloped with another man and they stole my ship together.”  

Ross regretted having asked. He had not intended to make the younger man relive any hurtful memories. “I’m sorry.”

Jim dismissed Ross’ concern with a wave of his hand. “It’s in the past now. I came back to England to start a new life, not to dwell on the old one.” He grabbed the bottle. “Your turn now,” he decided, pouring brandy into Ross’ glass. “What happened with your fair lady?”  

Jim had been honest with him. Therefore, Ross felt he had little choice but to do the same. “When I came back from war, Elizabeth was engaged to my cousin. They’re married now.”

“I see,” Jim breathed. He shifted on his chair and gave hint of a compassionate gesture, as if he intended to reach for Ross’ hand but decided against it at the last second. “And you love her still?”

Ross had not touched his drink yet. He shook his head. ”I don’t know. I’m trying not to.”

”Seems like we’ve been both deceived by women,” Jim observed. He put the bottle down and raised his glass. “To Coral and Elizabeth, may they find happiness with some other men and leave our hearts at peace.”

“Well said,” Ross approved, and they toasted.  When their glasses collided, an amber drop of brandy escaped from Ross’ and landed on the back of the sailor’s hand. A pink tongue darted from Jim’s lips and he licked the drop off his skin, his periwinkle eyes still locked with Ross’ through pale lashes.

Ross felt heat climb to the vicinity of his nose. He gritted his teeth in an effort to chase the flustered feeling. It was imperative that he stopped associating Jim with the naked man who had lain in his arms: even if they were in fact one and the same.

They drank in silence for a moment as Jim’s gaze wandered around the room. “That’s a fine house you have here,” he said.  

From anybody else, Ross would have given little credit to the compliment. This could have been a more or less sincere comment, in a polite attempt at reviving the conversation, but he could see that Jim was genuinely appreciative. He appeared to be the kind of man who always spoke his mind and had no taste for empty flattery.

“Nampara had been my father’s pride, but when I arrived a year ago, it was nothing more than ruins.”

“That’s good work you’ve done, then.”  

“Thank you.”

Prudie brought two bowls of what looked like a watery potato stew. Ross wished he could have offered his guest something better. It was not exactly tasty, even after having emptied half the salt shaker into it, but at least it was hot and they were both starving.  

They proceeded to eat and Ross lost himself in thoughts. It had stricken him, just how similar the two of them were. Men of action, who refused to let adversity win, had rolled up their sleeves and tried to build back their life from scratches; men who valued liberty, and equality; men who had known heartbreak and treason, and wanted to play fair game nonetheless.

Jim broke the silence with a chuckle.

Ross’ eyes shifted from the bottom of his bowl to the young man’s face. “What makes you laugh?” he inquired.

“What makes you smile?” Jim said, tit for tat.

Ross then realized he had been smiling to himself. “I don’t know,” he admitted with a snigger. It was the effect the young sailor had on him: a kind of soft, simple happiness, like when he peeked outside in the morning to realize the weather was cloudless and just warm enough.

Jim looked perfectly at ease at Nampara’s table, as if this chair had always waited for its true purpose: for him to sit in it.

A life of peace and seclusion: he had thought it would suit him -- that he was content to be Ross Poldark the famous recluse. But having that lively young man seated across him was a refreshing change to his dull routine and made him realize just how lonely he had been. Suddenly, he was afraid of dying just like his uncle Charles; having lost faith in this world. The dark Poldark: an old bachelor, without friends…. without love.

Verity always repeated how sorry she was for him. He thought she would be pleased to hear that he had made a friend outside of the Poldark family circle.

When the last spoonful of stew was eaten and the last chunk of bread had disappeared from the plate, Jim rose and dusted crumbs from his shirt. “This was a very agreeable meal, but I should take my leaving and report to my employer, before he considers me dead and replaces me. He had surely heard of the wreckage by now.”

The mere mention of Jim’s employer made Ross feel like he had just drunk a whole pint of sour milk. “George Warleggan,” he grunted.  

Jim frowned. “Not a friend of yours, I gather.”

“That’s not for lack of trying on his part.”

“Something tells me he won’t succeed.”

“Let’s say we have different ways of doing business,” Ross explained. This new topic of conversation had made him grow somber. “The Warleggans are like spiders offering friendship to the flies under the condition they come in their webs. With such friend as George, no one needs enemies.”

Jim remained unperturbed. “He has the whole county under his boot: that’s what I’ve heard. People rarely get there in an honorable way.  But I’m an outsider and he was the only one who accepted to hire me. Beggars can’t be choosers.”

“As my banker never fails to remind me,” Ross sighed with a touch of humor, “but it is still the sad truth.”

“I’m not sad, however. Once I’ll have enough money to get on my feet again, I’ll try my luck elsewhere - anywhere the wind carries me.”

“You mean to leave Cornwall soon?”

“Not for a year or so.”

Their conversation was interrupted by Prudie barging in the room. She was huffing and puffing and her large face was painted with sweat and pride when she handed Jim his shirt. “There, I mended it for ee, Mister Hawkins.”  She had gotten more work done in the past hour than she did for the last four months. She glimpsed at her master, to see if the threat of having to sleep in the chicken coop still stood.

“Thank you, Prudie,” Ross said, feeling benevolent.

Satisfied she managed to avoid punishment, she cleared the table and left.

His shirt having been mended and his trousers and boots being dried to Jim’s satisfaction, Ross left the parlor to let him get changed back in his own clothes.

On his way to the kitchen, Ross ran into Jud who hurried in from outside. His clothes dripped with rain and there was a wicked excitement in his small, ratty eyes.

“What do you want?” Ross asked dryly.

“I be needin’ the gun, sir. I caught a mongrel.

“What mongrel?”

“A dog, sniffing ‘round the barn.”

“Even if you were sober, I would certainly not let you shoot with my gun. Before I know it, you would have killed half our livestock by mistake,” Ross argued. He climbed the stairs and fetched his gun in his office himself. “Where is that dog?” he asked his manservant when he joined him back in the hallway.

“I tied it up outside the stables, sir.”

“Show me,” Ross ordered. He grabbed his tricorn hat and urged Jud forward to the door.

The rain obscured the backyard with a flimsy curtain. Ross followed Jud to the stables.

“Mongrel” was indeed a good description of the animal. The dog was the result of the mix of so many breeds he was not even sure to be able to recognize at least one of them. Its fur was a mismatched quilt of grey, charcoal, white and butterscotch. The dog’s eyes lit up at the prospect of company and it wagged its tail. It didn’t have the scrawny complexion of a stray. That dog belonged to someone and looked rather inoffensive. Ross disliked to kill innocent beings, but the animal had trespassed on his property. Friendly or not, it was still a danger for his chickens and it could also carry rabies.

He stepped under the roof of the stables, dried the flint of the musket with a handkerchief and loaded the gun with a resigned sigh.

The dog had stopped wagging its tail.

He was about to shoulder the gun when he heard a hail.

”Wait! That’s Patch!! That’s my dog!” Jim shouted, limping his way across the courtyard. He knelt in the mud and freed the dog from the rope Jud had put around its collar. “Come here, boy! Good Lord! I thought you had drowned!”  Patch celebrated the reunion with his master with yaps and licks to his face.

“See? There won’t be any need for a gun after all,” Ross told Jud, who looked somewhat disappointed by the outcome. Ross retrieved the bullet carefully from inside the barrel, relieved that Jim had stopped him in time. “Now go and saddle Old Johnny,” he ordered Jud. The manservant obeyed with one of his usual grumbling rants about the unfairness of life.

Still ruffling the fur on his dog’s head, Jim gave his host a questioning look.

“I can’t have you going back on foot with your injured ankle,” Ross stated. “I will lend you my father’s horse. It’s an old gelding, almost blind, but it knows its way to Truro by heart. You can use it for as long as you please… or even keep it, for all that matters.”

Jim shook his head. “I can’t accept...”

“Of course you can. I have little use for it, if that makes you feel better.” Maybe, that would also compensate for the fact he had come close to shooting Jim’s dog and had also undressed the man without his consent.

The rain had turned into drizzle. Jud came out of the stables minutes later, leading Old Johnny by the reins. Jim petted the chestnut horse and Ross watched them get acquainted with a smile.

The time for the two men to part had arrived. They fell into steps side by side and Ross walked him around the house.

“I’m much obliged to you, Ross, for all you did. You saved my life, no less,” Jim told him when they stopped by the lilac tree that guarded Nampara’s front lawn. “It’s worth a lot, but I’m sadly a man of very few means at present.”

“Seeing you alive is enough reward for what I deserve,” Ross assured him.  

“And still. I wish there was a way I could properly thank you.” Jim threw a quick look around. Jud was gone. Except from Patch and the old horse, they were alone. “Perhaps this will have to suffice.”

Without preamble and before Ross could foresee anything, the younger man had slid a hand to the back of his neck and was kissing him on the mouth: firmly, not to let him escape, and with enough passion to pour a sudden and startling heat inside his whole being. Ross’ eyes were wide open with surprise. It was not every day that he found himself lips locked with another man'. He did not kiss back, but neither did he pull away. Jim’s lips had the plump and smooth texture of a maiden’s, but the chin that was pressed to his was decidedly a man’s, as were the strong fingers gripping the curls at the nape of his neck. Once again, Ross realized there was a major difference between “forbidden” and “wrong”. That kiss was sure sinful in more than a way, but it failed to elicit any feeling of wrong-doing in his conscience.

Jim’s mouth wasn’t on his anymore, but still too close for it to be decent, and the look on his face alone was an ardent embrace. “And if that did not quite meet the requirements of gratitude,” Jim whispered, “I’m lodging at the Greenrow cottage in Truro.”

When Ross, finally got hold of his wits again, Jim had already mounted. The blond man tipped an imaginary hat as a last goodbye and trotted down the road with Patch skipping behind.

Ross was left there in the drizzle and the wind, as stiff as a wood post, to ponder whether Jim’s last words were an invitation, a promise or worse.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this chapter based on Mosslover's prompt on Tumblr. She wished for an "unexpected kiss": here it is !! :) I have no idea if i'm going to write more. Maybe, if the inspiration strikes me.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank for reading. :) Hope you guys liked it.


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